{Parental Adivsory--Mature content} [as if that'll ward the kiddies away..muahaha]
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A small curse interrupted the forbidding silence as a girl winced slightly, drawing the needle from her fingertip for the twenty-seventh time. The red thread attached was only a shade lighter than the prickle of blood showing from the needle's most recent entrance. She ignored it and continued sewing precariously, unexperienced.
"Amanda.." A harsh, yet quiet, voice reprimanded, and she felt hazel eyes glaring.
"What?" The red-haired girl asked nearly innocently, refusing to meet Dean's dissaproving gaze.
Dean shook his head, walking away from her and kicking off his shoes, lying on her bed. His hard gaze softened at the cloth covering her 4 poster bed, acting as a sheild from the ceiling. He never could quite understand why it was there, but it always made him smile at the odd things she did. Beneath his hands, the same rough stitching she had just been doing could be felt on the patched-together misfit quilt she slept on.
Several feet away, Amanda brushed a fiery strand from her jade green eyes, concentrating intently on her work. Her fingers nimbly pushed aside the purple fur of her care bear. Inside lay her addiction, the bottle of assorted pills hidden amoung the stuffing. She knew Dean hated her addiction, but it was the thing that kept her going so he had to accept it.
"Hey... you know I can't help it." Dean shrugged, rolling over on the misfit quilt to see Amanda. His slight smile grew a bit at her odd appearance. Red hair in braided pigtails, an explosion of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and a black tank top that was too small paired with faded jeans that were too big. A peek of purple panties showed on one side, as the jeans were settled at an angle on her hips; and her matching purple bra strap was halfway down her shoulder, perfectly visible. The bottoms of the jeans bunched around black and pink toe socks, seeing as she was merely 5'2" and the jeans were made for someone around Dean's height, 5'7".
Amanda looked up at him. "What're you staring at?" He just chuckled and shook his head. She grabbed the 2 liter of Fresca from her dresser, shuffled back to her desk, and grabbed the 7 pills she had extracted from her childish hiding place that was just innocent enough to work. With a glance at Dean, she turned her head and swallowed them along with the last of the Fresca; the only thing she would ever drink. The mixture of caffeine, adderall, pain killer, sleep aid, and other various things would kick in maybe half an hour later, throwing her senses for a loop and morals as well. When the caffeine wore off, she'd fall into a near death-sleep, awake but unable to respond. Dean knew this and it was the main reason he stayed with her, to take care of her.
After a few moments, Dean rolled back over to stare at the tri-color canopy above and tried not to smile at the shuffling sound that preceded a girl leaping onto the bed next to him, sprawling over half the bed before curling into a little ball.
"D.. what's on your mind?" it was almost a whisper coming from the wad of clothing.
"Pain. Death. The usual."
"You want me to make it better?"
"Sure, go ahead." Dean smirked slightly, looking over to see her creep closer, cute and seductive all at once. He knew it wouldn't happen, it never happened that way, but he could wish. She nibbled his right ear lightly, crawling over him and tumbling off the edge of the bed.
His entire body shuddered and he craned his head back to see her sit up from the floor, looking frazzled as she did every time. A giggle reached his ears and she kissed his nose, wrinkling her own at him before stumbling to her feet. The quiet shuffles of her feet attempting not to trip always amused the boy and comforted him at the same time. For several minutes she shuffled around until he chanced a look and saw her easel set up, paints out, and sketching paper. He smiled, she had remembered.
One time the pair had been in a park and she had all of her art supplies with her. It had been in a rare time of being sober for her, and he had mentioned loving the way she looked when painting or drawing. The far away look in her eyes, the intent posture, the obliviosness to everything except her and the paper... Dean had voiced how beautiful it made her many times and she knew it could solve any problem of his; even if he said it couldn't always work.
With one last touch before she began to work, Amanda quickly unbraided her pigtails and let her hair hang in waves, turning to smile at Dean. He tried to hide his smile but it was no use, she had seen it and it ahd encouraged her.
The paints pooled onto the paper plate she held, ready to be shown to the world. After suckling a moment on the bristles of her paint brush, Amanda dipped the edge in the purple, then the red, then the blue. Together they streaked across the canvas. More joined them until the colors meshed into an abstract masterpiece. The entire time her sweet voice had hummed the tune to "Bunny Foo Foo" and when it ceased, Dean was drawn from his trance. The paintbrush plopped into a cup of water and the artist collapsed onto the bed, exauhsted as the second stage of her self medication kicked in. She was tiring quickly and knew they were both high from the paint fumes in a lowly ventilated room.
Dean watched her silently, in awe of the sudden beauty that he saw so rarely anymore. He knew what the paint meant, what it always meant. He looked down at her with a new energy as hers faded. Amanda nodded, pulling off her shirt and tossing it aside before laying back on the multi-color quilt. Her part was done.
As her conciousness faded away, Dean began his work. He worked at her ears, her neck, her small breasts, and down her stomach. The body responded only as a body will, without a mind. An occasional movement, an arching of the back, a small moan. When he was sure of her slumber, the too-large jeans slipped easily from her hips and he began his work between her thighs.
When Dean was spent, he rolled off of her and pulled his jeans back on, leaving hers in a heap on the floor. He stood, moving the easel with her new painting right next to the bed. Amanda lay motionless, red hair matted and tangled, with her matching purple bra and panties only half on--respectively. The boy retrieved an old camera from the desk and snapped a picture. Moments later it printed out and he taped it to the wall alongside the others.
Her masterpiece next to his.
She was his masterpiece, his creation, and always under his control.
Amanda's eyes opened hours later--to an empty room--to survey the wall full of pictures, until she located the newest. With a far away look in her eyes, she stood wearily and pulled her jeans on, grabbed care bear and her spool of thread, and shuffled out the door.

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